sempre

Upon his lack of answer, Logan straightens, head poking from over the kitchen island. He raises his brows expectantly. “So? Are you gonna?”

Oscar’s brow twitches. “Am I gonna what?”

“Ask Y/N.” Oscar’s confusion must be more evident than he initially thought thought, because Logan’s irritation is starting to show. “Oscar.”

“How did you—” he clears his throat awkwardly, hand dropping by his side. He licks his lips. “Why do you think I’m texting her?”

Logan’s face twists. “Are you not?”

Heat climbs up his ears, turning them a warm pink. He scratches the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “That’s not the point.”

There’s a growing grin there that Oscar doesn’t particularly appreciate. “But you are.”

“Yeah, but how do you know?” His voice cracks, and the blush on his cheeks deepens at Logan’s laugh.

Logan clicks his tongue. “You make this weird face whenever you’re texting her. Like…” He pulls a weird face that looks unsettlingly cartoonish. “Ah, no, that’s not it.” He meets Oscar’s gaze. “Well, don’t look so horrified. It’s just… whenever the two of you are texting, you get all giggly and smiley and blushy. And quiet. It’s only a little disturbing.”

“Oh my god.”

Logan chuckles as he returns to rummaging through his cabinets. “I wouldn’t worry— it’s not like she’ll ever see it first-hand. And you’ve been doing it since F2, so I don’t think she’ll figure it out now.”

Oscar hides his face behind his palm, skin uncomfortably hot. Now the panic settling in his gut is for a much more terrifying thought. “Oh my god.”

Logan tilts his head as he sets down a few more shot glasses onto the counter. “Sorry— did you not know?”

“No!” Oscar squeaks. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath. He’s well aware of his feelings for you. It was a sum of small, really insignificant things. You playing with his hair. Reaching to hold your hand when you were walking together at night. Feeling weirdly annoyed when your ex-boyfriend had visited you on the paddock.

But that was his secret. It was a fantasy— something none of his friends were meant to find out about.

Oscar exhales, fidgeting with his index and thumb. Well, at least there’s silver-lining. At least it’s Logan who knows— Logan, and not someone like Lando.

“You’ll be fine.” Logan shrugs. “You should know it gets worse when you’re talking to her in person, though.”

“Kill me.” Oscar sets his phone onto the counter. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair anxiously. “How— Does anyone else know?”

Logan considers it for a moment. “That you giggle when she texts you or that you think she’s hot?”

Red blots his skin. “Logan.”

“You do, though.” He rolls his eyes at Oscar’s expression. “Don’t know. But I don’t think anyone would blame you for finding her attractive.”

Oscar’s brow twitches at that. His gaze fixes itself on Logan, who can barely contain the smug look off his face. Something twists in his stomach. “You think she’s attractive?”

Logan’s mouth parts, the corner of his lips curved up with amusement. He closes them with a small laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s a right answer for that.”

Logan’s gaze flits down to the counter, before returning to Oscar. He snickers quietly.

“What?”

Logan bites down his smile. He tilts his head towards Oscar’s phone, left discarded on the counter. “I think you received a text from someone.”

Oscar’s eyes return to his phone with embarrassing speed. Under your contact name, is a short line of text.

Could you tell Logan to let me up please? xx

It’s nothing. It literally means nothing. And yet, Oscar can feel the small smile pulling onto his lips.

Logan snorts. “Yeah. You’re gonna have to do something about that.”

You had no time for problems. Your life was already a balancing act on a tightrope stretched too thin, weighed down by responsibilities, expectations, and the little inconveniences that piled up like clutter in the corners of your mind. Another problem wasn’t just unwelcome—it was unthinkable.

Especially problems that came from dating.

And Lando? Lando was a problem you couldn’t afford.

You met him months ago. At first, he was just another customer—harmless, fleeting, nothing worth remembering. Then he became a donor, his generosity slipping through the cracks of your carefully maintained distance. And then, somehow, he became something else. Something of a problem you didn’t mind having. Unfortunately.

“You should stop sending me flowers,” you told him, the phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as you carefully set down the last of four pots of deep orange roses he had delivered to your studio. Their petals were impossibly soft, almost weightless beneath your fingers, like the whisper of silk sheets in the morning. The color was rare, difficult to find. A mystery, like so many things about him.

“Should I?” Lando’s voice hummed through the speaker, his smirk practically audible.

He was probably in a paddock somewhere, another race weekend stealing him away to some distant city, but you never bothered to check where. He never made you feel like he was gone.

“You don’t seem to mind,” he added, and damn him, he wasn’t wrong.

You liked the way he chased. How he lingered in the periphery like a shadow, always watching, always waiting. How he learned your coffee order without asking, walked you to your car without expectation, showed up at your events unannounced but never unwelcome. He played the part of something dangerous but never reckless, his obsession carefully measured, wrapped in velvet and tied with a bow.

You weren’t stupid.

Lando Norris would be a problem if you let him be.

So, you didn’t. Not entirely. But you never let him go either.

Not yet.

“—Hello.”

Lando’s voice cut through the conversation like the effortless glide of a brush on canvas, his presence slipping in behind you before you even had the chance to react. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you close with the kind of ease that suggested he belonged there. That he always had.

You looked up, startled. You hadn’t expected him to be here. Then again, Lando had a habit of showing up in places you didn’t expect him to be.

The gallery was dimly lit, warm and intimate, each painting strategically placed under soft golden light. But the atmosphere shifted the moment Lando appeared. You felt it in the way the man you had been speaking with suddenly stiffened, his polite smile faltering as his eyes flicked between you and the driver who was now entirely too close, entirely too relaxed.

Lando wasn’t invited tonight. You hadn’t extended an invitation, assuming he’d be flying back to England for post-race debriefs. Yet, here he was, standing beside you like he’d been meant to all along.

Not that he was unwelcome.

“Excuse us,” Lando said smoothly, his posh British accent adding a sharper edge to his words as he pulled you away without waiting for permission. He plucked the flute of champagne from your hand, bringing it to his lips in one effortless motion, downing the expensive bubbles in a single gulp. Then, without a second thought, he wiped his mouth against the sleeve of his suit, glancing around as if daring someone to stop him.

His eyes flicked back to you. “You were letting him touch you.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “He’s a curator,” you defended, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

Lando scoffed, scrunching his nose in visible disagreement. He turned toward the nearest painting, pretending to admire it—but you knew better. He wasn’t interested in the brushwork, the composition, or even the story behind it. His gaze lingered lower. He was looking at the price tag.

“He wants to fuck you,” Lando corrected bluntly, his voice low, even, certain.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you turned your attention to the painting instead of him. “So do you.”

“The difference is,” Lando started, squeezing your waist just enough to make you look back at him, “you let me.”

His confidence was unwavering, his gaze sharp as it locked onto yours.

You only smirked, meeting him with the same quiet arrogance.

Lando held your stare for a beat longer before turning back to the artwork. He gestured toward it with a tilt of his chin. “I want this one.”

You raised an eyebrow. He didn’t have the space for it in his apartment, and you both knew it. But the aesthetic matched, and the price was high—high enough that most buyers would hesitate. Not him.

Maybe he bought it to impress you. Maybe he did it just to keep you on your toes, knowing the most expensive pieces were the hardest to sell. Or maybe, just maybe, it was another unspoken way of marking his presence.

Because every time he showed up uninvited, he left with the most expensive painting in the room.

And every time, he won.

Lando is becoming a problem.

And he knows it.

It doesn’t stop him from showing up at your apartment, though—loose-limbed, lazy-eyed, a bag of takeout in one hand and a set of sketches in the other. Your sketches. The ones you’d left at his place after he’d dragged you back to his apartment following a night out clubbing.

You barely have the door open before he’s stepping inside, flashing you that smile. The one that always manages to worm its way past your defenses.

“Hi.” He greets you like he belongs here. Like he always has. “You forgot these.”

It’s an excuse. You both know it. The sketches weren’t important enough for him to make a trip across the city, but that’s never stopped him before. He likes having reasons to see you. He likes pushing the line of what’s invited and what’s not.

You sigh, shutting the door as you watch him toe off his shoes, making himself at home. He sets the takeout down on the counter before wandering into your kitchen, moving through the space with a familiarity that should annoy you. It doesn’t.

You still haven’t said a word by the time he reappears, two plates in hand, already dividing up the food he’s brought. He hands you a plate before sinking onto the couch beside you—so close there’s no space left between your bodies.

You glance at him, amused, but shake your head and start eating anyway. There’s no point in telling him off. He never listens.

Lando makes himself even more comfortable, grabbing the remote and flipping through Netflix like it’s his own account.

“You should teach me how to draw,” he says suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

You snort. “I should teach you manners.”

Without missing a beat, you reach forward, smudging a bit of dipping sauce onto the tip of his nose with your finger.

Lando blinks, unfazed. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he catches your wrist before you can pull away. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to keep you still. His ridiculous green eyes lock onto yours, holding your gaze steady as he leans in—

And licks the sauce off your fingertip.

The room shifts. Your breath catches.

The look he gives you is almost challenging, a silent dare lingering between you.

You don’t back down. Instead, you tilt your head, fingers curling under his jaw as you lean in, closing the distance between you with a kiss.

Lando hums in approval, smiling against your lips.

He might be a problem.

“I really ought to teach you some manners.” You scoff, swatting Lando’s bicep as he stood in front of you.

He only grinned wider, the picture of unbothered charm, holding a tray of coffee in one hand and a bouquet of orange roses in the other. Instead of answering, he lifted the flowers, hiding his face behind them in a poor attempt to suppress his laughter. His shoulders shook slightly, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as if that would stop the amusement from spilling over.

You rolled your eyes, swatting at his bicep again. Unfairly solid, as usual. He made no effort to dodge, letting you land the hit with that same insufferable smile. His stupid mullet, his stupid dimples—yes, he was attractive, but that wasn’t the point. He couldn’t just show up at your studio uninvited. What would your co-workers think? Worse, what if rumors started? People might assume you were the latest addition to the ever-growing list of paddock WAGs. You could not have that.

Lando was a problem.

And the worst part? He knew it.

When your little lecture finally came to an end, he peeked out from behind the roses, offering one of the coffee cups as a peace offering. You narrowed your eyes but took it anyway, muttering under your breath. He knew your order perfectly, down to the extra shot of espresso, the exact amount of sugar. How could you stay mad at him?

“Give me that.” You huffed, snatching the bouquet from his other hand and setting it on your desk.

You’d come to realize, over time, that orange roses weren’t just a nod to his team. They meant desire. Fascination. Enthusiasm.

Desire.

That asshole.

“You could always tell me to leave,” Lando mused, tilting his head, amusement twinkling in his ridiculous green eyes.

“Fuck off,” you muttered. Then, contradicting yourself entirely, you grabbed his bicep and dragged him toward the door. “You want lunch, right? Let’s go.”

Lando laughed but followed without resistance, letting you lead him outside.

Telling him to fuck off while pulling him along was irony at its finest.

Lando couldn’t keep himself off you for even a second.

If it wasn’t one hand on you, it was both. He was always there—holding your waist, resting a palm on the small of your back, wrapping an arm around you from behind. Like a tether, like gravity itself.

Lando had attachment issues.

They used to velcro him to his karting seat, and now he velcroed himself to you.

The event was private, exclusive, the kind of gala that required an invitation—one you actually had, unlike a certain Brit, who had a habit of showing up uninvited. But when Lando told you they’d be auctioning vintage art pieces, he knew your curiosity would win out. He knew you’d say yes.

Still, out of all the art in the room, the only masterpiece Lando was interested in was you. If his constant proximity wasn’t proof enough, the way he was looking at you certainly was—like he wanted to bite you, just for the sake of it.

Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be out of the question.

“This is so pretty,” you whispered, admiring a particular painting on display.

Lando hummed in agreement, though he wasn’t looking at the artwork. The only thing he deemed pretty in that moment was you—draped in the satin dress he’d bought specifically for tonight. Not that you didn’t have suitable dresses of your own. He just wanted to put you in papaya.

His hand slid along the inside of your thigh, fingers curling against your skin through the slit of your dress, giving a firm squeeze before pulling your chair closer to his own.

Attachment issues.

You ended up going home with the painting you’d been eyeing.

Shoes and heels were discarded on the floor as Lando lifted the frame from the wall beside the dinner table, making space for the new piece. He barely had time to step back and admire it before his hands were on you again, arms winding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Then, just as he’d helped you into the dress earlier that evening—

He took his time taking you out of it.

You don’t understand Lando’s eyes.

They say a person’s eyes are a gateway to their soul, but Lando’s are something else entirely. Not hollow—no, there’s someone home—but dark. Watching you with something heavy, something obsessive, something that clings to his every thought like ivy wrapping around brick.

It isn’t romance. Not in the soft, poetic sense.

It’s devotion. The kind that erodes. The kind that will eat him alive one day.

He sits at the edge of your bed, hunched forward, those dark eyes fixed on you as you sit at your vanity. The P1 Singapore trophy rests in your hands, cold and gleaming under the soft light. You admire it, running your fingers along the engraved lettering, wearing nothing but a satin robe.

“Can I keep it?” The question slips out before you even register it.

“Whatever you want, it’s yours,” Lando answers without hesitation. He’s already moving, crossing the room in a few strides, crouching beside you. His lips find your neck in a soft kiss, breath warm against your skin. “Whatever it is in this world you want, it’s yours.”

You smile, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Those dark eyes.

“And if I tell you I want you to leave?” you ask, turning to face him fully.

Lando flinches. It’s small, but it’s there. A microsecond of vulnerability before he straightens, exhaling as he runs a hand through his curls.

“I’ll leave.” His voice is rougher now, giving in too easily as he gathers his clothes off the floor, his movements stiff.

“But I didn’t tell you to leave.” Your voice is softer this time. “I said if.”

He freezes mid-step, groaning as he tilts his head back in frustration.

“Stop toying with me, please,” he mutters, looking at you with a glare that doesn’t hold.

Because it fades the second he sees you again, admiring his trophy, your fingers tracing over the smooth metal with something soft in your expression.

Lando watches you.

And just like that, he’s ruined for you all over again.

You don’t remember inviting Lando.

When you decided to go out drinking and clubbing with your friends, you were pretty sure Lando Norris wasn’t part of the plan. And yet, here he is, holding you against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

He must still have your location on Snapchat or whatever app he secretly stalks you on, because somehow, some way, he found you.

You don’t mind, though. Not when he’s this warm against your back, laughing softly in your ear. You’ve never heard this chuckle from him before—it must be a drunk Lanny thing, this odd, clingy affection. You’re not sure how much either of you had to drink, but the way he lifts your hand, pressing kiss after kiss to the back of it, makes you giggle.

You lean your head back on his shoulder, letting go of his hand, only for Lando to tighten his grip around you, lips trailing down your neck instead.

“Come home with me,” he shouts over the music, voice low and full of something unspoken. “I want to show you something.”

Not that he really gives you a choice.

You barely get a chance to respond before he’s pulling you along, weaving through the sweaty crowd with your wrist in his grasp. But whatever he planned to show you is long forgotten by the time you reach his apartment.

Because the laughs turn into kisses. The kisses turn into moans. And the moans turn into him fucking you against the wall.

Lando is an experience. A little bit of everything you crave, wrapped into one maddeningly intoxicating man—nicely built, painfully loyal, stupidly funny, unfairly good-looking, and completely, devastatingly obsessed with you.

And that look in his eyes? That dark, hungry look as he sheds his clothes and practically rips your dress down its zipper? That’s what ruins you.

He traps you against the wall, body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him in waves. Fabric tears as he forces it off your body, and then he’s lifting you up by your thighs, a smile curling at his lips as his nose brushes yours.

You smile back, cupping his face as you kiss him sweetly, a stark contrast to the way he’s about to ruin you.

Clumsily, he adjusts you above him, and you feel the stretch as he sinks into you—slow, torturous, unbearable.

A whimper slips from your lips as he presses harder against you, bracing you against the wall before he starts to move. Your arms slip from his neck to his back, nails digging in, marking him up like you own him.

You don’t see his face when you lean your head onto his shoulder, watching where your bodies join, but if you did—you’d see that dark, crazed look in his eyes. The kind that swallows him whole as he nibbles and sucks on your skin like a man starved.

Like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

Because he doesn’t want you anywhere else. Not against the wall. Not out there with your friends. Just here. In his arms. Moaning his name like it’s the only word you know.

And it takes a few rounds—because Lando is nothing if not thorough—before you remember the reason you came to his apartment in the first place.

You lay naked on the couch, catching your breath, staring at a painting on his wall. You recognize it. One from your gallery.

Before you can ask, Lando reappears, setting a white box in front of you.

You lift a brow. He just gestures for you to open it.

So you do.

And you scream.

Lando flinches, but his grin only widens as you pull out the dress, hugging it to your chest like it’s a lifeline.

You’re up in an instant, jumping up and down, running back and forth, nearly tripping over yourself in excitement. Lando just watches, lounging back on the couch, cheek propped up on his fist, drinking in your every move.

“Are you going to keep screaming, or are you going to put it on?” he teases.

You squeal again, fumbling to pull it on.

It’s a wedding dress.

Not just any wedding dress—the last one your favorite designer ever made before they passed, intricately sewn with pearls and jewels, a masterpiece in fabric form. You weren’t planning to get married anytime soon, but the dress was too beautiful not to admire. You’d sketched it, opened it on your phone more times than you could count—Lando must’ve noticed.

His eyes soften as he helps you into it, watching as you jump in place, giggling.

“Well?” He makes a motion with his finger. “Give me a spin.”

You do.

And he sighs, shaking his head like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Without thinking, you launch yourself into his arms.

Lando doesn’t catch you. Not fully.

He stumbles back, landing flat on the carpet with you on top of him.

You don’t care. You pepper his face with kisses, grinning wildly, dress fanning around you like a dream.

Forgetting, for just a moment, that you aren’t even dating him.

Lando sat in the McLaren unit, chewing on his lunch with little appetite. It was the season finale in Abu Dhabi, and his thoughts were more occupied by you than the race ahead. His fingers hovered over his phone, but there was nothing but silence on your end. No responses. No acknowledgment of the flowers he’d sent, no replies to his texts. His mind ran wild, wondering if you’d received them or—worse—if you were upset with him. How was he supposed to know?

His gaze flicked back to the screen, but the numbers and stats blurred as his mind returned to you. The silence was unbearable.

That’s when the movement caught his eye. He glanced up, instinctively furrowing his brows at the sight of his trainer’s mischievous smile. Something was off, but before he could ask, a pair of hands were suddenly covering his eyes from behind.

He recognized those giggles immediately—soft, melodic, like a song only he knew. A grin tugged at his lips as he pulled the hands away, not caring for the surprise but savoring the moment. And there you were, standing in front of him, eyes sparkling with amusement as you giggled down at him.

Lando’s mouth went slack. His heart hammered. It was like a dream—or maybe he was dreaming. No, this was real. You were here.

He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair screeched across the floor. The words to speak vanished in his throat, his brain struggling to process your sudden appearance. His mouth worked silently, like he didn’t quite believe it himself.

“I was gonna ask you to guess who, but I guess you knew,” you teased, stepping into his chest with a mischievous grin. You kissed his cheek softly, and his pulse quickened.

Lando blinked, still in disbelief. Usually, it was him chasing you around, showing up uninvited to see you. But now, here you were—chasing him. It was doing something to his heart, something he couldn’t put into words.

Before he could stop himself, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you tight as if he was afraid you might disappear the moment he let go. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky, his voice coming out almost a whisper, “What are you doing here?”

You leaned back slightly, eyes twinkling as you looked up at him. "I’ve come to watch you win," you said, your voice a soft promise, your smile radiant and warm.

Lando’s smile softened, his chest swelling with pride as he pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. But before he could say anything else, you pulled back, your words dancing against his lips like a melody.

“My boyfriend’s going to win this race," you said proudly, "and we’re going to go home with a trophy.”

At that, Lando’s heart skipped a beat. A proud, excited “fuck yes” slipped from his lips as he squeezed you tighter in his arms, kissing your temple like it was the only place he wanted to be. The weight of your words—the truth of them—settled deep inside him.

What’s one more problem anyway?

Lando was your problem now.

you rolled your eyes. "yeah, you need me to call you a cab."

max groaned, tilting his head back. "no, you." his words came out jumbled, but there was something… weirdly sincere about them. his drunken blue eyes stared into yours as he said, "i love you."

you blinked. "what?"

"i love you," he repeated, much too casual for something that insane to say out loud.

you laughed, patting his shoulder. "oh, okay. and tomorrow morning, you’ll love a big headache, too."

max frowned, clearly frustrated that you weren’t taking him seriously. his grip on your arm tightened slightly. "no, no, i mean it. i love you."

"you’re drunk."

"yeah, but i still love you."

"go to sleep, max."

"i love you."

"uh-huh."

—

the next morning, max showed up at your door looking like death itself.

sunglasses on, hoodie up, hair a mess, and a red bull can in hand like it was some kind of magical cure. you let him in without a word, watching as he flopped onto your couch with a heavy groan.

"never letting checo mix my drinks again," he muttered.

you smirked. "you mean never letting yourself mix your drinks?"

max lifted a hand weakly. "details."

you sat next to him, poking his shoulder. "so, do you remember anything from last night?"

his face scrunched in thought. "uh… i remember dancing, i remember lando laughing at me, and i remember… uh…" his voice trailed off as his posture stiffened slightly.

you watched him carefully. "you remember what?"

max’s hand came up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i may have said something stupid."

you raised an eyebrow. "oh, you mean confessing your undying love for me? yeah, i’d say that qualifies as stupid."

he groaned, sinking lower into the couch. "shit."

you laughed. "so, do you want to take that back, or…?"

max sat up suddenly, pulling off his sunglasses so he could look you dead in the eyes.

"no," he said, completely serious.

your breath caught.

max shook his head. "i don’t want to take it back. i meant it."

you blinked, not expecting that. "max…"

"i love you," he repeated, but this time, there was no alcohol in his system, no slurred words, no hazy grin. just him, just max, staring at you like he had known this truth for a long time.

your stomach flipped.

"say something," he mumbled, clearly nervous.

you smiled, your heart pounding. "you really have the worst timing, you know that?"

max exhaled a small laugh. "tell me something i don’t know."

you rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else, he grabbed your hand, holding it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"just tell me one thing," he said quietly. "do you love me back?"

you squeezed his hand. "i do."

max grinned, leaning his forehead against yours. "good."

ʚ・lewis hamilton

lewis was always grateful for you.

you had been there for everything, the highs, the lows, the chaotic last-minute travel plans, the quiet moments in between. being friends with lewis hamilton meant late-night phone calls when he couldn’t sleep, celebrating podiums like they were your own victories, and grounding him when the world became too much.

and lewis? he never took you for granted.

but it wasn’t until today that he realized why.

—

"you are an actual lifesaver," lewis said, flopping onto your couch with an exaggerated sigh.

you grinned, handing him a cup of tea before sitting down next to him. "all i did was fix your pr nightmare. you act like i just saved your championship season."

he groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "no, because if i had to sit through one more meeting about my ‘social media strategy’ or listen to someone tell me how i should ‘connect with fans better,’ i was going to lose my mind. you handled that mess in, like, five minutes."

you smirked, sipping your own tea. "well, someone had to. you looked like you were about to crawl under the table and never come out."

lewis laughed, shaking his head. "not even joking, i considered it." he took a sip of tea, sighed happily, then looked over at you.

"i love you."

the words came out so easily, so naturally, that it didn’t even register at first.

you just smiled. "i know."

and for a moment, everything felt normal. because this was you and lewis. you had always been close. you had always been affectionate. saying "i love you" in moments like this wasn’t weird.

except this time, it was.

because suddenly, lewis stopped mid-sip, blinking like he had just realized what he said.

you felt it too.

the room got quieter, the air heavier. your heartbeat picked up, and when you looked at him, his expression had shifted…his usual effortless confidence replaced with something more uncertain.

"i mean, uh—" lewis started, clearing his throat. "you know, like… i love you in a friend way."

you raised an eyebrow. "do you?"

he opened his mouth, then closed it. "i… think so?"

you set your cup down, turning your body to face him fully. "because it sounded different this time."

lewis stared at you for a second, like he was replaying the last few moments in his head, analyzing them like a race strategy. then he exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"yeah," he admitted, voice softer now. "it was different, wasn’t it?"

you swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were sitting.

"do you want to take it back?" you asked.

he met your eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "no."

your stomach flipped.

lewis shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours. "you know i meant it, right?"

you nodded, barely breathing. "yeah."

he tilted his head, studying you like he was seeing you for the first time. "and?"

you bit your lip, your pulse racing. "and… i love you too."

lewis grinned, the kind of smile that could light up an entire room.

"that’s good," he said, voice warm, eyes soft. "because i really didn’t want to take it back."

ʚ・george russell

fighting with george russell was exhausting.

not because he yelled, he didn’t. not because he was mean, he wasn’t. but because george had this thing where he had to be logical, had to be rational, had to explain why he was right in a way that made you want to rip your hair out.

and right now? you were both standing in his kitchen, arguing over something so stupid that you weren’t even sure how it started.

"george, i swear to god, you are so stubborn!"

"me? i’m stubborn?" he gestured wildly. "you’re the one refusing to see reason!"

"you’re acting like you’ve never been wrong in your life!"

"because i’m not wrong about this!"

you groaned, throwing your hands up. "oh my god, you’re impossible!"

george scoffed, shaking his head. "you are impossible!"

the frustration was boiling over.

the tension in the room was thick.

and then, suddenly, george blurted out, "i love you, and you make me insane!"

you froze.

he froze.

the room went completely silent.

you blinked. "what?"

george exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "oh, for god's sake," he muttered, mostly to himself, before looking back at you. "i love you. and i don’t know why i decided right now was the perfect time to say it, but it’s true."

your heart was pounding. "you… love me?"

"yes," he huffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "you drive me crazy, you argue with me about the dumbest things, and you never let me have the last word—"

"because i’m right most of the time," you interrupted automatically.

george shot you a look. "see? this is what i mean."

you opened your mouth to argue again but stopped. because, holy shit, george russell just confessed his love for you.

and maybe you were still annoyed, and maybe you still thought he was wrong about whatever the hell you were fighting about, but none of that mattered anymore.

because you loved him too.

you swallowed. "well… for the record, i love you too."

george let out a breath, his whole body relaxing. "thank god."

and then, before you could say anything else, he closed the space between you, cupped your face, and kissed you, like he had been waiting to do it forever.

the argument? forgotten. the love? loud and clear.

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was always shamelessly flirty with you. the teasing, the winks, the ridiculous pick-up lines? flirting was practically his love language. and after years of friendship, you had gotten used to it.

mostly.

right now, he was watching you struggle with a jar of pasta sauce in his kitchen, leaning against the counter with that infuriating smirk of his.

"you need help, amor?"

you huffed, gripping the jar tighter. "i got it."

carlos snorted. "sure you do."

you shot him a glare before twisting the lid as hard as you could. nothing. the damn thing wouldn’t budge.

carlos reached for it. "come on, let me—"

you yanked it away. "no. i can do it."

he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "you are very stubborn."

carlos chuckled but didn’t argue. instead, he folded his arms and waited, watching you wrestle with the jar for another few seconds. finally, with an annoyed groan, you shoved it into his hands.

"fine. do it."

carlos grinned like he had just won a world championship, taking the jar with an exaggerated flourish. "watch and learn."

with one quick motion, he popped the lid off effortlessly and held it up like a trophy. "easy."

you narrowed your eyes at him. "i loosened it."

"of course you did," he said, eyes twinkling. "and you’re so lucky i love you, or i would let you struggle with every jar forever."

silence. the air in the kitchen shifted.

you stared at him, your brain short-circuiting. "what?"

carlos blinked. "huh?"

you took a step forward. "what did you just say?"

he hesitated, his confident expression faltering for the first time. "i said… you're lucky i—" he stopped, suddenly realizing what he had let slip.

your heart was racing now. "carlos."

he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "shit."

"you love me?" you asked, voice softer now.

carlos let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head. "i mean… yeah. kind of a lot, actually."

you just stood there, staring at him, completely thrown off by the way he was suddenly serious.

carlos sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "i was planning to say it differently. maybe over dinner, something romantic. not… after opening a damn jar."

a laugh bubbled up in your chest. "this is kind of perfect, though."

he raised an eyebrow. "you think so?"

you grinned, stepping closer. "yeah. because now, i get to say it back."

carlos's eyes flickered with something warm, something hopeful. "you do?"

you nodded. "yeah."

before you could say anything else, he pulled you in, his hands resting on your waist as he pressed his forehead against yours. "you are still very lucky, amor," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. "yeah? and why’s that?"

carlos smirked before kissing you, slow and sweet.

"because now, i get to love you forever."

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles didn’t get mad.

not really. not in the way that others did. he wasn’t the type to yell, to throw things, to let his emotions get the best of him. he carried stress in his shoulders, in the tight clench of his jaw, in the way his fingers tapped anxiously against his thigh.

but right now? right now, he was livid. and it was because of you.

"can you stop being so damn reckless for one second?" charles snapped, pacing the length of your apartment like he was trying to burn off the anger simmering beneath his skin.

you huffed, crossing your arms. "i wasn’t being reckless."

"you could have been hurt!" his voice cracked slightly, and that’s when you realized this was more than just frustration.

you sighed. "charles, i—"

"do you even care what happens to you?" he interrupted, his voice rising in a way you rarely ever heard from him. his hands curled into fists at his sides, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

you furrowed your brows. "of course, i do! but i had it under control—"

"no, you didn’t!"

the words were sharp, cutting through the tense air between you. charles never yelled. he never raised his voice at you. but tonight, something was different.

you took a step closer. "why are you so upset?"

charles let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "are you serious?" he turned toward you fully now, eyes burning with something raw, something you didn’t quite understand yet.

and then, all at once, he snapped.

"i care about you, can't you see that i love you?!"

the words hung between you, heavy and unshakable.

your breath caught, your heart slamming against your ribs as charles stood there, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling like he had just run a race.

slowly, the realization of what he had just said seemed to settle in. his expression shifted, frustration fading into something more vulnerable, something exposed.

he swallowed hard. "merde," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "i—"

"you love me?" you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

charles exhaled, his entire body deflating. "yes." there was no hesitation, no backtracking. just the truth. "i do."

silence stretched between you, thick and charged, the weight of his confession pressing into the space like a live wire.

your lips parted, but no words came out. because what could you even say to that?

charles ran a hand over his face. "i know i shouldn't have said it like that. i know this isn't the right moment, but damn it, i can't just sit here and watch you act like nothing matters, like you don’t matter."

your throat tightened, and suddenly, you weren’t thinking about the argument anymore. you weren’t thinking about the reckless thing you had done, the stress that had led to this moment.

you were thinking about him.

the way his hands were still clenched at his sides, like he was holding himself back. the way his eyes darkened as they flickered down to your lips for just a second, just long enough for heat to pool in your stomach.

"say something," he murmured, his voice lower now, softer, but no less intense.

you swallowed hard. "i—i didn’t know you felt that way."

charles took a step closer, slow and deliberate, until there was barely any space left between you. "you do now."

your breath hitched. "and what happens now?"

his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering this time. "that depends," he murmured, "are you going to let me show you how much i mean it?"

the air was thick, charged with something electric, something inevitable.

you barely had time to nod before his lips crashed against yours, urgent and desperate, like he had been holding this in for years.

and maybe, just maybe…he had.

ʚ・lando norris

being best friends with lando norris meant you were used to his nonsense.

you were used to his chaotic energy, his terrible dad jokes, his ability to trip over literally nothing, and the way he could never sit still for more than two minutes. you were used to the weird stares he gave you when he was deep in thought, and you were definitely used to the way he sometimes just blurted out whatever was on his mind with zero warning.

but this? this was new.

you were sitting across from him in his living room, scrolling through your phone while he aimlessly clicked through the tv, trying to find something to watch. it was quiet, comfortable, and perfectly normal.

until lando, completely unprompted, stared at you and blurted out, "i love you."

your head snapped up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "what?"

lando blinked, eyes wide, as if he had only just processed what had come out of his own mouth.

"oh. uh." he cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "i said… i love glue?"

you squinted. "lando."

he coughed, looking absolutely panicked now. "i meant… i love zoo. the zoo. love the zoo. animals are great."

you deadpanned. "lando."

"i love you." he sighed in defeat, running a hand through his hair. "okay, yeah, that’s what i said."

you stared at him, half amused, half trying to figure out if he was messing with you. "you just…randomly decided to say that?"

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "i didn’t mean to say it! i was just looking at you and thinking about it and then…boom. my brain short-circuited and now i want to throw myself into the ocean."

you bit your lip, watching the way he was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the tips of his ears turning red.

it was kind of adorable.

"so," you said, leaning back. "you love me?"

lando shot you a half-hearted glare. "yeah, obviously."

you smirked. "you love me."

he groaned again, throwing his head back against the couch. "are you seriously going to make me suffer right now?"

"yes," you said immediately, grinning. "because this is hilarious."

lando grumbled something under his breath, still refusing to look at you.

you scooted closer, nudging his leg with your foot. "hey."

he peeked at you through his fingers. "what?"

you smiled, softer this time. "i love you too."

his hand dropped from his face as his eyes flickered to yours. "wait. you do?"

you laughed. "obviously."

the relief that washed over him was instant. his whole body relaxed, and that familiar, cheeky grin of his came back full force.

"good," he said, reaching over to pull you into a dramatic hug. "because that would've been really awkward if you didn't."

you snorted. "lando, it was already awkward."

ʚ・oscar piastri

oscar was a quiet kind of chaotic.

sure, he wasn’t as loud as some of the other drivers, but he had his moments…usually when he was sleep-deprived, caught off guard, or in this case, accidentally confessing his feelings through text.

it happened late at night, when you were already in bed, casually texting him like you always did. the conversation was nothing special, just something about the race next weekend, a stupid meme he sent, and your usual back-and-forth teasing.

and then, out of nowhere, a new message popped up from oscar.

oscar: yeah okay but i love you though

your heart stopped.

you blinked at the screen, reading the message once, twice, three times, just to make sure your brain wasn’t playing tricks on you.

before you could even process it, the familiar typing… bubble appeared.

then disappeared.

then came back.

then disappeared again.

you could feel his panic through the screen.

finally, another text came through.

oscar: wait no oscar: i didn’t mean to send that oscar: ok i mean i did but not like this oscar: i am going to jump into traffic

you bit your lip, torn between laughing at his very obvious meltdown and screaming because holy shit, oscar just told you he loves you.

before he could actually throw himself into oncoming traffic, you typed back.

you: so you love me, huh?

the typing bubble appeared. stopped. appeared again.

then:

oscar: erm. yeah?

you grinned, your heart flipping as you typed back.

you: good. because i love you too.

the typing bubble stayed still for a long time. then:

oscar: okay i take it back, this was the perfect way to say it.